


No Man is an Island

by M_LadyinWaiting (Tanis)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3546482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/pseuds/M_LadyinWaiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plagued by the first of numerous withdrawal symptoms, a misstep puts Athos' musketeer career in jeopardy before it even actually begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Worth Saving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359414) by [M_LadyinWaiting (Tanis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/pseuds/M_LadyinWaiting). 
  * Inspired by [Worth Saving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359414) by [M_LadyinWaiting (Tanis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/pseuds/M_LadyinWaiting). 



> This story picks up a week or so after the events in Worth Saving, as a bit of 17th century rehab, sponsored by Aramis and Porthos, begins to take shape. While I don't believe you have to have read Worth Saving to *get* this story, many things in this one are natural progressions from the last story. 
> 
> Warning for multiple POVs.

_No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main.  If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less.  As well as if a promontory were.  As well as if a manor of the friend's, Or of thine own were.  Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.  -- John Donne_

Translations:       _démodé –outmoded_ _déclassé – low class    tour de force – exceptional achievement       vis vitalis – vital force/ego_

**No Man is an Island**

Tréville stood at the balcony railing watching as he had done often over the last few weeks, fascinated with the brilliant swordsmanship on display below in the courtyard.  He still had no love for the Come de la Fère, but Athos was beginning to work his way up in the captain’s esteem. 

As expected, the king had granted the new commission with crowing delight.  And to be fair, Tréville had decided, having acquired the services of the finest swordsman in Europe was something to crow about.  He’d left the king eager to share the acquisition of this new musketeer with the cardinal, though Louis _had_ promised not to reveal Athos’ heritage.  Whether the king would remember their conversation, and his promise, remained to be seen. 

While Aramis had reported the gist of their conversation with the _comte_ and the relaying of the captain’s condition for employment, Tréville had still been surprised when Athos had reported for duty without the pauldron.  Its continued absence over the last week had further raised his growing respect for the man.    

Neither had it escaped Tréville’s notice that the nobleman did nothing to discourage the inane chatter among the few who had not yet learned to respect his prowess with the rapier.  He did not play with them tauntingly, nor challenge them beyond a prod here and there that stretched their skills a little bit more each time they faced him. 

Athos often stayed now, too, of an evening, even after dinner, though he kept to the shadows and was never without Aramis or Porthos at his side.  Tréville, not one to begrudge another success, especially where it had been earned, had watched the growth of mutual respect among that trio appreciatively. 

Aramis had been right; the man had been worth saving.  Beneath the rust and tarnish slowly being rubbed off the Comte de la Fère, there was an innate moral compass.  It had just needed some adjusting to find true north again. 

A communal gasp from the courtyard below recalled Tréville’s wandering attention.  He glanced down again, just in time to see Athos trip over some unseen obstacle and go down hard on an elbow, jarring loose his sword.  Though he rolled instantly from beneath the plunging rapier of his student, it caught in the loose sleeve of his shirt and Athos’ own movement gouged a bloody crease across his forearm.  He shifted to his feet much more slowly than usual, though not from the scratch on his wrist, Tréville was certain. 

Those who were not on duty elsewhere often came to watch these fencing exercises; some even came to learn.  There were a few catcalls, and someone called for a halt, but Athos ripped a swathe of material from the bottom of his shirt, tied it around the wound and picked up his sword again.  He said something to his opponent too quietly for Tréville to catch, though the watching gallery groaned as one. 

The pair shifted and the musketeer captain sighed at the disparaging gloat reflected on Frayne’s face.  Tréville was not a man overly familiar with guilt since his conscience rarely misled him, but it was his fault this little cadre of musketeers continued their needling.  They’d taken their cue from him; he had not immediately put a stop to their taunting as he usually did. 

Porthos had confronted him about it angrily but had taken no steps on his own, Tréville suspected at Athos’ insistence.  The captain had made the decision not to stop him, if Porthos had chosen to step in; the warrior could intimidate with just a look and rightly so.  But in a twisted way, at least Tréville supposed it was rather twisted, he was glad Porthos had not.  Athos was finding his own way and in the process, revealing hidden depths Tréville would never have imagined only knowing the man by reputation.   

The battle below leapt to life again with a furious series of clashing blows and a smartly executed bind by Frayne.  Athos caught the parrying dagger, the blades screeching across one another, and pushed back, stumbling again.

At the railing, Tréville straightened, wondering if _he_ should call a halt and in the next instant regretting he had not done so.  He was down the stairs before anyone in the stunned audience moved, on his knees beside the downed _comte_ , grasping the still shuddering rapier barehanded. 

Frayne had followed the stumble without pulling back, pinning Athos to the ground with a sword thrust that had gone clear through his shoulder. 

“Get Aramis!” Tréville snarled at the breathless, still unmoving crowd.     

“Don’t pull it out.”  Athos’ gloved hand rose in automatic command. 

“I know that you stupid, bloody fool,” Tréville snapped angrily.  

Three feet away, Frayne, who apparently had not been quite as expectant of triumph as he’d appeared, dropped slowly to one knee, spewing his noon meal over the boots of those in the front of the watching ring before toppling in a swoon at their feet.

First blood occasionally took a man that way, better to have it happen here than in a battle situation.  But Tréville had no time for the youth.  “Get him out of here and get that mess cleaned up!  Lancelin, Bastien, something solid in order to move Athos,” the captain ordered.   

Porthos appeared as if conjured by a magician.  “What the hell?” 

“Help me up.”  Athos reached an authoritative hand up, expecting his command to be obeyed. 

Porthos ignored him, though he dropped to his knees as well.

This close, Tréville could not miss the fine tremors coursing through the _comte’s_ sprawled body.  “Why the devil are you even here today?”  Aramis had kept him updated on the progress of the drying out.  He was well aware they were several days into it already. 

The line of the bearded jaw clenched briefly, and not from pain.  “Help me up,” Athos said again to Porthos, though he could not sustain the effort of holding his hand up.  The shock was wearing off quickly.   

“No.”  Porthos was having none of it, though he did grasp the hand before it fell back in the dirt.  “You can’t move with that thing stickin’ out of ya and stop tryin’ to sit up.”  He clamped his other hand on Athos’ uninjured shoulder.  “You know this couldn’t ‘ave happened if you’d been wearin’ the damn shoulder guard,” he hissed. 

They had not spoken of this, but it had been understood between them all that Athos had accepted Tréville’s decree and would not wear the pauldron until he’d been dry and sober long enough to count.   

Tréville, still holding the rapier, shuffled around above Athos’ head so Bastien and Lancelin could drop the top they’d stripped off the communal table.

“Bastien, get his feet, Lance, shoulder,” Porthos commanded, grabbing a handful of leather.  “Ready Cap’in?  On three.  One – two – three.”

They heaved as one; Athos grunted and nearly broke every bone in Porthos’ hand.  “I changed my mind, get it out now.”

“Not gonna happen.”  Porthos lifted the table, stuck a booted toe under it and transferred Athos’ death grip to the table edge.  “Slowly this time,” he said, casting a quick glance around to gage preparedness, “so everybody gets their feet under ‘em.” 

“Ready,” Bastien and Lancelin reported together as Tréville nodded his readiness as well.

“One – two – three.” 

Athos was not the only one grunting this time.  His gloved hand shot to the impaling sword again, intent on yanking it out, and would have if Tréville hadn’t reflexively smacked his hand away.   

“You want to bleed to death out here in the courtyard?” the captain growled.

“Keep it level, keep it level!” Porthos, the tallest of the lot was attempting to bend at the knees to accommodate the shorter stretcher bearers, while both of them were struggling to hitch up their respective side and end. 

Doors banged open, personnel scuttled out of the way and a bucket of water, tipped over by a screaming, backpedaling maid sloshed over their boots as they tromped down the hallway.  The double doors to the surgery had been thrown open as well and they deposited Athos and tabletop atop the surgery table.

“Do you need your ears cleaned?” Porthos’ diction was perfect again, each word clipped and precise as he sliced through the remainder of Athos’ shirt with his dagger.  “I was in the room when Aramis told you not to show up here today.  Get the brandy,” he instructed Tréville, “the cheap stuff Aramis keeps for wound cleansing.  Cupboard, right side, second shelf down.  Who knows what’s on Frayne’s sword, he never cleans it. And you,” he addressed Athos again, leaning over with a hand on either side of the table top so he was right in his face, “what the hell is wrong with you?  You do know we were jokin’ about falling on some idot’s sword I hope.” 

Porthos bent to appraise the weapon and the injury from a closer vantage point.  “You’re gonna need a cadre of vampires at the rate you’re losing blood.”  He straightened.  “We can’t wait for Aramis.  So here’s what we’re gonna do – Cap’in, grab a fistful o’ them bandages and be ready to clamp both sides of the wound, ‘specially if it starts spurtin’.”  He glanced sideways at the other two.  “You’re gonna have to hold him down ‘til he passes out.” 

Porthos grabbed the _comte’s_ chin, though his touch was infinitely gentle, and turned his face away from the proceedings.  “Once more on three,” he ordered.  “One – two—”

There was no three. 

The rapier clattered to the floor and Athos convulsed, sweat pouring off him like rain on a hot summer night, but he did not pass out.  He could feel the pressure of Tréville’s hands at his shoulder, and as though through a thick, soupy fog, hear Porthos cursing.  And then there was fire.  He was by turns burning hot, then icy cold, like being burned alive in an ice quarry.  His heart began to thunder like a herd of wild horses, threatening to burst from his chest.  The passage of time ceased, there was only an unending ribbon of pain centered in his shoulder, flowing like liquid fire through his veins. 

But he did not pass out. 

And then he recognized Aramis’ voice thundering, “Merciful Mother of God!  Porthos, KNOCK HIM OUT!” 

Really, in the scheme of things, the feather light tap on the cheek that whipped his head sideways was less than a rap on the knuckles from one of his long ago tutors.  Athos sank gratefully into the void, the echo of Aramis’ cursing tirade following him down like a sinker on a fishing line with a bite.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke in need of an exorcism, his head spinning as though the earth had spiraled off its axis.  Squinting only splintered the light pouring in through the window into infinite refractive prisms, each point piercing as though Aramis was attempting trepanning in multiple places all at the same time.  Athos got an elbow under his side, the one attached to the heavily bandaged shoulder his questing hand informed him when he fell back, gasping with the pain.

Hands at his shoulders lifted him to adjust pillows, then a cool compress was applied to his forehead. He smelled … violets again.

Memory flooded back. 

“Everything hurts.”  Athos cracked an eyelid.

“It’s going to for awhile.” Aramis, perched on the side of the bed, cocked his head.  “Which might not be a bad thing.”  He sighed theatrically.  “Perhaps it will keep you from rushing back to the garrison to finish the job.”

 If it hadn’t hurt so much, Athos might have rolled his eyes.  “ _I told you so_ is so _démodé_.”

“And keeping your word is so _déclassé.”_

“I made no promises.”

 “And yet,” Aramis mused, scratching his head, “you stated clearly that you heard everything I said to you two nights ago.  You might not have said the words, but you certainly implied that you would remain here.”

Athos blinked and slammed his eyelids shut again.  “Two nights ago?” he echoed. 

“Yes, well, Porthos was a little overenthusiastic when he put your lights out.” Aramis removed the compress to rewet it.  It was heating up worryingly fast, but he did not immediately put it back.  “And since you’ve thinned your blood practically to the consistency of that poison you’ve been pouring down your throat, it geysers out of you like one of the palace fountains now.  Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Frayne managed to miss all the major blood carriers in your shoulder.  We _were_ joking, you know, when we said to fall on some puppy’s sword,” he added, sounding exactly like Porthos.     

Athos attempted to sit up again. “Wit _and_ charm.  I am all aflutter.”  The room tilted so crazily even pressing a hand to the wall he could not tell which way was up and which way down.  He subsided, panting. 

Aramis muttered imprecations under his breath as he replaced the compress.  “I distinctly remember telling you not to go the garrison, that you could hurt somebody besides yourself in your condition.”

Athos was in enough pain that heeding his tongue was not foremost on his mind.  “Which - for the second time - I managed _not_ to do.  Do you know what kind _tour de force_ that requires?” 

For a moment Aramis sat staring unblinking at the _comte_. 

Athos dropped his head back on a sigh.  “I did not expect to trip over an imaginary piece of wood.”

Aramis collected himself with a slight shake of the head.  “I really must stop betting with Porthos.”

“Good God, am I really that endlessly fascinating?  What now?”  It was their little device for encouraging his return to humanity, but just now, despite the inquiry, Athos was not particularly interested in Porthos’ insightful little commentaries on his evolution.  He did not want to evolve; he just wanted to crawl back into the bottle where pain and this enervating weariness evaporated like mist over the lake at home when the sun came out. 

As if reading his mind, Aramis only smiled and moved on without answering, though he would have to pay up.  Porthos had bet him that underneath all the - _I’m a dissolute, worthless wreck_ – there was still a _vis vitalis_ that knew its worth.  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe we had a conversation about seeing things that aren’t there as well.”

 “We did?” Athos draped an arm over his eyes.  It was not that he did not remember every one of the long list of symptoms Aramis has warned him to expect, but he was not in the mood for lectures either.  Even lying still, his orientation in space was suspect.  The vertigo intensified when he closed his eyes, for there were no longer points of reference to focus on, keeping them open, however, was extremely painful.   He let the strangely heavy arm slide away, wincing when even that small movement pulled at the opposite shoulder.   “How bad is it?”

“Better than you should have a right to expect.”  Aramis pulled Porthos’ chair around and sprawled in it facing his patient.  “If you’d listened to me, this never would have happened.  If you’d been wearing the damn pauldron this never would have happened,” he stated, sounding just like Porthos _again_.  “Right now I’d like to hit you myself.”

“Be my guest.  If it will vent your spleen and save me further lectures, please do so and get it over with. I doubt I can feel any worse than I do just at the moment. And you did not answer my question.”

From Athos, that was the equivalent of an entire manifesto. 

Aramis’ squint of incredulity went unnoticed since Athos still had his eyes closed.  Sighing, he leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees.  “Tréville said it looked like you tripped over something, too.  Said that’s how you acquired that little scratch you bound up with your filthy shirt.  Which, by the way, is infected now.  It appears filth and grime anywhere near a wound equals infection.  The shoulder wound has closed up nicely.  In a couple of weeks it probably won’t be giving you any trouble at all.  That is, of course, if you don’t die of infection before then.  So what happened?” 

That explained why his right arm was throbbing worse than the left.  Athos opened one eye cautiously.  Strangely, the room spun only half as fast.  “May I have some water … please.”

Aramis leaned further forward, reaching for the pitcher and glass on the small table he’d placed by the bed.  It held physics and salves and a roll of bandaging.  He slipped a hand under Athos’ head and tilted the glass to his lips.  “The giddiness will pass in a bit.  What happened?” he repeated, this time a little more emphatically. 

“You were right about the phantasms.” Athos tilted his head back and rolled his stiff neck when Aramis let him lie back down. 

“What?  I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”  Aramis returned the glass to the table and leaned back again. 

“You were right,” Athos repeated in that annoyingly flat voice he used so effectively. 

“As regards most things medical, I’m rarely wrong.” 

Aramis had told him to expect the apparitions within a few days of going stone cold sober.  The younger man had been rather adamant that Athos curtail his activities when the withdrawal symptoms began.  Athos was very certain he had remained neutral on the subject of confining himself to his apartment at any point in the proceedings.  He did not like enclosed spaces much these days, and had expected to at least have the freedom to roam if he could not be at the garrison.

If he’d been out for two whole days, then the phantasms had begun nearly a week past, when his dead wife had appeared, stalking him like a shadow -- at a stall in the market place he passed through on the way to the garrison; disappearing around a corner as he came upon it; standing watching him from a second story window.  She had appeared twice in the garrison courtyard, skulking as if hiding behind the posts, though she had been plainly visible.  To him.  No one else had remarked her presence.  

When objects had begun to appear in his path, large things at first, that Athos could see through, despite what his mind was telling him he had known them for what they were – mirages.  It had been a horse the first time, and then an herb bed like the one just outside the kitchen door in Pinon. 

In the courtyard during the lesson with Frayne, he had twice tripped over the same table leg, apparently ripped from the communal courtyard table, for when he’d looked distractedly in that direction, the table, full of food, had been listing on the fourth corner, the food sliding off onto the ground. 

He’d known immediately it was not real, for no one among the observers had been paying the least bit of attention to the slippery slide of their dinner.  But it had not stopped him tripping over the same piece of imaginary wood a second time. 

“Blind obedience has never been a skill I possess.”     

When Aramis did not immediately jump on the confession, Athos opened his eyes again. 

The musketeer had on his considering face.  “As contrition, that might be a little understated,” he said at last.   “But I accept your apology – if that’s what you intended - though I did not ask for obedience, much less blind obedience.  If, in my attempt to be diplomatic, I did not make it clear that I was _asking_ for your _cooperation_ , then I must apologize as well.  However, this time I will have you word that when I tell you something for your own good, you will not ignore my advice.”

Athos sighed again, but capitulated without argument. “You have my word, sworn on whatever you hold as sacred.” 

“Works better if you swear on something you hold sacred.”

“Then we are at an impasse, as there is nothing I hold sacred.”

“I find that a very sad state of affairs.  Is there nothing you _ever_ held sacred?”

 _Once_ , and it was his first thought, _once I held my marriage vows sacred_.  Athos said only, “Not in recent memory.”  And changed the subject.  “I need a bit of privacy – and the chamber pot.”  It was unlikely he could reach it given how weak he was at the moment.

“One chamber pot coming up.” Aramis retrieved it from behind its wooden screen.  “The privacy might be a bit of an issue unless you can get out of bed on your own.”

Athos admitted defeat and accepted help only after the third attempt to rise, though he really wasn’t given a choice.  The urgency of nature’s call and Porthos’ timely appearance had him on his feet in a trice.  They left him, propped with the chair, to fend for himself. 

Thankfully.  


	3. Chapter 3

As promised, over the course of the first long day awake, earth finally returned to its proper orbit around the sun as Copernicus - and God before him - had ordained, and the vertiginous room eventually settled. 

Athos did not. 

He woke, the third bright morning of wakefulness, to a long day stretching ahead with no end in sight.  He had slept himself out, but between the shoulder and the arm and the fever causing places to ache he had never realized _could_ ache before, the _comte_ was not in a good mood.  Neither was he an exemplary patient. 

During the first two days Athos had slept, Porthos had made a list of his books and scouted out the nearest book sellers to inquire what else a man who read – _these kinds of books_ – might like to read.  He’d bargained well and brought back a number of well-loved tomes if their covers were anything to go by.   

Athos did not want to read, nor did he want to be read to.  Porthos offered cards.  Athos displayed no enthusiasm.  Nor was he interested in games of chance.  Neither would he touch the invalid food Serge was sending over with the nursing staff. 

Aramis threw up his hands, commiserated with Porthos over their restive patient, and headed back to garrison duty.  Porthos picked a book at random, tipped the chair back against the wall in the bed chamber and cracked the book’s covers.  His only movement over the next several hours was to turn pages and an inconsistent tapping of his foot on the floor. 

Athos spent the long morning attempting to ignore the incessant tapping and trying to keep his mind as blank as possible.  He did not want to think about why he was doing this, nor the list of things Aramis had again ticked off that were going to happen over the next several days.  He especially did not want to think about the fact that he had trapped himself inside these four walls for the foreseeable future. 

Lying on his right side made it difficult to keep that arm elevated, which, as soon as it sank below the level of his heart, began to throb unbearably.  He could actually lie on his left side, the heavy bandaging supporting the wound enough to make it tolerable, but not for any length of time.  And so he spent most of the day lying flat on his back staring alternately at the ceiling or the square of light that was the waist-high window, fruitlessly trying to find a comfortable position.  

Porthos finished his book, the thud of the closing covers followed by the thud of the chair legs hitting the floor.  He offered food.

Nothing tasted right, nor did food of any kind go down easily.  Athos refused.

Porthos refilled the water pitcher on the little table and then the glass.  His patient ignored that as well. 

“How ‘bout chess? Brought my set over.”

Athos agreed listlessly.  “Was it good?”

“What?” Porthos was busily moving bottles and bandaging to the windowsill so they could use the small table to set up the board.  The pitcher and water glass he left on the floor by the head of the bed within easy reach. 

“Your book.”

Porthos shrugged.  “Nothing spectacular, though there were some racy bits to liven it up here ‘n there.” 

“What kind of book was it?”

Porthos launched into a description of a tale of a Spanish lord who very much resembled Aramis if Porthos’ retelling was in any way accurate.  He kept it brief though, and finished as he set the last white pawn in its space, “Nothing you’d be interested in, I guess, but it passed the time well enough for me.”  He turned the board so the black was to Athos, who always played black, and moved a white pawn out a space.

“Where did you learn to play?” Athos asked a few minutes into the game.  His concentration was poor, at best.  He might mount a defense against Porthos’ strategy, who was an excellent opponent, but generating a diabolical offense was not within his purview.

“Nights in the Court.  We’d go steal ourselves fancy clothes off the washer women’s lines and pretend to be the fellas used to promenade in the Marais district along the _Place Royale.”_ Porthos laughed at the memory.  “Pro’bly the most innocuous thing we ever did.”

“The board must have a story,” Athos remarked, countering a rook’s sideways move against his queen with one of his lowly pawns.   Every knight was different, every pawn diverse.  Only the black set of the king and queen matched, every other piece was singular, some very plain, others ornately and stunningly detailed. 

Porthos reached across the board to caress one of the black pieces, the finely-carved detail in the mane and tail following the sweeping backward motion of the rearing horse.  “This here knight I got off a table in the Rue St. Jacques at a little café that has the best croissants.  I’d scout around ‘til I found a set I really liked and then filch a piece or two.  I like the black pieces best.”  His eyes touched each piece on the board with a sort of loving reverence, before lifting to Athos’ amused gaze.  “Couldn’t very well pinch a whole set, that woulda set the watch on the look out.  But nobody misses a piece here or there when the board’s set aside for the day.  Took me almost six months, but I was real proud of it by the time I’d got all the pieces.  The board was bit harder.”

“I can imagine.”  Athos moved the knight Porthos had touched to counter a cagey bishop threatening his king.  “Too big to fit easily inside a jacket.” 

“Which is why I didn’t even try pinching it all secret like.  I walked into the café and told ‘em I’d been charged with taking all the local boards to a marble dealer for cleaning.”

“And they bought the story?” 

“Well, I had three others under ‘m arm already, but that were the one I wanted.  When I got my hands on it, I polished up the others and took ‘em back.  Didn’t need but one.  And then I made sure not to be in the vicinity of the café I took the board from ‘til I was growed a bit and changed ‘m clothes.” 

Porthos’ dilatory humor was rewarded with the tiniest glimmer of a smile in the fever-bright eyes, though Athos continued to play without any of the finesse he normally brought to a game. 

“Certainly makes it unique,” Athos commented, running his queen back to safety.  Even in his semi-dazed state, he recognized the musketeer was sharing a rare bit of his upbringing.  The big warrior seldom discoursed on the subject, though it was clear he was not the least bit ashamed of how he had grown up.  “I probably wouldn’t be struck by lightening for the sin of playing the white pieces if you prefer black as well.  Remind me next time.” 

Porthos shrugged.  “Don’t matter too much to me which side I play.”  He won handily and did not offer to play again.  Aramis had prepped him, as well, on the various things that could and would go wrong through this course of drying out their new friend. 

Athos was no longer lying half propped among a mound of pillows.   A third of them were on the floor, another mangled between his hands, and the covers were twisted around his bare feet.  He was incapable of lying still. 

“How can I help?” Porthos asked quietly, setting the board aside to lean forward on the hard seat of the chair.

“Shoot me.  No, give me my pistol and let me do it myself.  No use leaving that on your conscience.”

Without a word, Porthos got up, retrieved the pistol from the other room, loaded it meticulously and handed it over. 

That prompted the small but genuine half-smile Athos’ lips had begun to learn.  “You are a true friend.”

“We’re tryin’ to be, but you don’t always make it easy.”

Athos laid the lethal weapon carefully among the purloined knights and pawns on Aramis’ small table.  “It has not been my intent.  I am sorry I can’t seem to be even a decent friend.”

“We know that, and that last part’s just crazy talk.  No one expects you to be all smiles and sunshine, but you got to cut us some slack as well.  You’re so close with your feelin’s we’re guessing which way to jump most of the time.  So when we get it wrong, you need to let us know.  It don’t have to be all mannerly, one ‘o them famous looks ‘o yours usually does the trick.”  Porthos paused briefly before adding with a gentleness that did not match his exterior, “When you shut us out, there ain’t nothing we can do.”

Athos’ lips twitched again and he slanted one of those ‘famous’ looks at his friend.  “You are a fount of wisdom, Porthos.”

The warrior ducked his head shyly, pleased by the not-altogether-facetious compliment.  “Gettin’ quite fond of you, too,” he said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

Pinon had never been a towering fortress of love and companionship.  Having experienced little of either, especially among his own gender, Athos did not quite know what to do with this unexpected camaraderie he’d stumbled upon. 

“I …” he began, then shook his head, making the room swim again.  He slammed his eyelids shut, clutching the pillow to his chest like an anchoring weight.  “I think I should probably try to sleep.”

“Aramis left a bottle of poppy for pain.  It would put you to sleep again.”

“And prolong the battle.  I think not.”

“Smart.  Hard,” Porthos added, as he rose.  “But smart.”  

Athos swallowed the last remnants of his pride.  “Will you remove the rest of these pillows for me?  I cannot manage it without considerable twisting.”

Porthos, without a word, slipped an arm behind Athos, ignoring the sharply drawn breath, and rearranged the pillows along the wall side of the bed, then plumping the one beneath the injured man’s head before easing him back down flat.  For a moment, he remained bent over, fists resting on either side of the patient again, as he looked down at him. 

“Don’t even think about kissing me,” Athos warned, trying hard not to squirm under the close scrutiny. 

“You’re not my type.” Porthos grinned easily.  “I prefer ‘em dark-eyed an’ curvy.”  Though he did swoop down and touch the hot forehead with his lips, murmuring a prayer he’d heard often enough from Aramis to know by heart.  “Nothing that suffers can pass without merit in the sight of God.”

Athos closed his eyes.  These musketeers ‘saw’ way too much and he had not a clue how to deal with their magnanimity.  They did not pick at his internal wounds, only reminded him now and again that they would listen without judgment should he chose to unburden himself at any time.  It was humbling and terrifying at the same time. 

Porthos left the room without a sound.  For all his height and weight, he moved with the stealth of a big cat hunting prey. 

Athos drifted off to sleep as much from depression as the physical toll of the infection and wounds. 

When he woke again, it was dark.  A single candle, set in the windowsill, illuminated the pauldron resting beside it.  He rose very carefully, since every limb trembled with a combination of disuse, fever and withdrawal, found the emptied chamber pot set out close to the bed, and when he was done, retrieved that bit of leather.  It went back to bed with him.

He slept again, and his dreams were easier, though anxiety stalked the perimeter like a watchdog intent on pouncing at the first sign of weakness. 


	4. Chapter 4

Tréville had set them separate schedules to accommodate one of them being with their newest musketeer at all times.  Aramis, returning much later in the evening, found his patient tossing and turning, the sheets soaked and bloody.  The tossing and turning had reopened both wounds. 

Athos woke in a panic, struggling out of the clutching grasp of a nightmarish Anne bending over him as he laid upon the great tester bed at home, a victim of the ague sweeping the estate, the talons of the dead impaling him as she sobbed against his shoulder.  He wept vile curses even as his useless hands attempted to hold her to him as the phantasm faded. 

Corporeal hands lifted him from a viper’s pit of heat up into coolness, one hand pressing his head to a hard shoulder while another swept soothingly up and down his back.  And everything  - _everything_ – hurt.  Each individual hair on his head felt like it was throbbing independently.  There was a cold cloth at the back of his neck and the hand pressing his head to that shoulder swept through his sweat-soaked hair. 

“...just a nightmare, phantasms in the dark, they’re not real.  Easy now, easy.”

Heart galloping, Athos’ feeble effort to push off met resistance.  It took a further moment of struggle before he surrendered, but the opposition was implacable.  Shaking uncontrollably, he sank into the loose embrace with more gratitude than he knew himself capable of, aware on some deep, intrinsic level that this human contact was the only thing grounding him to his own plane of existence.

“She’s dead,” he kept repeating, “she’s dead.” 

Aramis, holding the wrecked bundle of humanity, knew not how to counter the desperation in the mournful cry.  All he could do was continue to encompass unyieldingly.  Athos was coated in a cold sweat, his skin clammy and afflicted by involuntarily twitching muscles.  Aramis could feel his heart racing as if it would desert the mortal body housing it. 

When Athos did finally pull back again, Aramis let him, stripping away blanket and sheet as he eased him back down.  He still said nothing, allowing the _comte_ a bit of internal privacy at least while he changed the weeping bandages.

He unbound the right arm, relieved to find the violet salve was doing its job.  The arm was less swollen then it had been a couple of days ago, the angry redness streaking toward elbow and wrist, finally beginning to recede.  Both excellent signs the infection was losing its hold.  He rewrapped the neatly stitched wound in clean bandages with much relief.  It seemed the _comte_ was not quite so dissolute as he wished to appear, else his body would not be able to heal itself as rapidly as it was doing. 

Aramis checked the shoulder, too, pleased to find the clean slice already knit together, and no sign of infection at all.  He resalved it as well, and bound it a bit more tightly than before, knowing what they were in for. 

“Don’t go.”

The nearly inaudible request was made as Aramis started to rise.  He sat back down on the side of the bed slowly, but made no attempt to initiate conversation. 

When he spoke again, Athos’ voice was stripped to its rawest element of need.   “I have been in the dark a long time.  The light is … sometimes hard to adjust to.”

Aramis, when he responded, was contemplatively quiet. “I understand.  I was not fit to move out of Savoy for nearly a month after the ambush.  The head wound I took was not severe; I just could not face the trauma of it.  I could not rid myself of the images of my dead companions.  They were there whether my eyes were open or closed. 

“It’s been more than two years and I still see them sometimes, faces blue by the time I woke to them, frost creeping over their cold bodies.  I still occasionally wake screaming in the night.  Nothing I can do about it; it lives outside of my control.”  Aramis clasped his hands around a knee and set his boot heel on the edge of the bed.  “The mind is a capricious place at best, sometimes our own worst enemy.  But as much pain as letting the light in brings, light also heals.  Madame von Bingen says a stubborn infection may sometimes be healed by consistent exposure to sunlight.  It is the same with the mind.”

“Why?  Why are you doing this?  I would have walked out of that tavern without a backwards glance.”

“I don’t believe that and I don’t think you do either, it’s your fallback position when you’re feeling vulnerable.”  Aramis did not want to trivialize the question, but neither did he completely understand his own motivation.  “Honestly, I can’t tell you why.  Maybe Savoy changed me.  Maybe this was my birthright from the very beginning and I’ve been growing into it since a bit of maturity set in.  Whatever the case, I’m incapable of walking away from someone in such pain as you carry.  Your indifference sends most people running, but it is not so deeply entrenched that a long hard look can’t see right through it.  You need us.  We like you.  Does it have to be more complicated than that?”

“Ergo, I am still worth saving.”  Athos did not pose it as question because Aramis had put his finger directly on the problem yet again – he was feeling extremely vulnerable.  And neither the _comte_ nor Athos had much appreciation for feelings of vulnerability. 

“Ha!” Aramis snorted. “We’ve put far too much work into you to let you wriggle off the hook now.  Besides, you were a real _coup_ for Tréville.  He says the cardinal is still stewing over how to match the acquisition of you.  He may try to recruit you, you know, when we’ve finally got you patched together and in working order again.  He won’t want the work of saving you, but he would delight in the glory of your reputation.”

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

“I don’t know, he can be very persuasive.”

“He has nothing I want.”  For Athos it was a statement of fact. His wants were very simple – honor and a chance to redeem himself, neither of which would be on offer from Richelieu. “If I do not remember to say it when this is over, I am grateful … for your … death grip … on my soul.”  The candle on the windowsill had been joined by two more, and another burned on the square top of the table snugged against the bed.   The corners of the room were draped in shadows still, but the space around the bed was brightly illuminated.  Athos met the steady gaze directed at him with all the openness he could muster.  “I do not know how I will ever be able to repay the debt I owe you and Porthos.”

“There is no debt,” Aramis said quietly.  “Friends don’t keep ledgers.”  And in the next instant, all traces of solemnity were erased from his voice and demeanor.  “Besides, we’re only doing this so we can bask in your reflected glory when your true identity gets out.”

“Right.”  Athos trimmed his sails and matched the healer’s impertinence.  “I’ll be sure to ask God if he’ll seat the two of you at his right and left.  Though I doubt He will bend an ear to any—”  Between one word and the next the nausea hit.  He grabbed the edge of the bed and rolled over on his protesting shoulder gasping a choked, “Chamber –“

Aramis, moving in a blur of speed, almost had the chamber pot under Athos before he vomited everything he’d eaten – which had not been much to begin with. 

Two hours later, Aramis wiped his own sweaty face with the wet cloth before dunking it back in the pitcher and bathing the sweat from the _comte_ again. 

“Athos.” He applied the cold cloth to hisforehead, and laid a hand along a pale, clammy cheek.  The blue eyes did not open.  “I can’t let this go on indefinitely.  I need you to take a little of the poppy before you wrack that shoulder and cause permanent damage.”  And to leaven the mood a little as he poured out a dose, “Else we may never be able to bask in your reflected glory.” 

“Did I swear?  Can’t remember now.”

“Yes, you did.  On whatever I hold sacred.” Aramis knew himself inordinately pleased by that bit of playfulness in the middle of what - for the _comte -_ must be a horrifying ordeal.  It could not be particularly pleasant for the still reserved Athos either, but he, at least, was making progress towards recalling what it was like to interact with other humans. 

“I want it noted … that I am doing this … ‘ginst my will.”

“Duly noted,” Aramis replied, propping Athos so he could drink the noxious brew. 

Aramis knew from experience how bad it tasted and nothing could camouflage it.  The healer had expended a great deal of time and energy attempting to find anything that might ease the opiate down a palate – to no avail. 

Porthos, who was immune to the juice of the poppy unless consumed in vast quantities, had been his taste tester.  But nothing Aramis had been able to concoct had fooled even Porthos’ rather unrefined criteria for what he swallowed. 

The medicine took its own sweet time reducing the wracking dry heaves. So long in fact, Aramis began to worry Athos was as immune to its effect as Porthos.  The candles had burnt down another two marks before release finally manifested itself.  Athos was still sucking air as if there was not enough in the room, but the trembling in the limbs began to ease and the clenched, quivering muscles slowly relaxed.   

“Do you think you have enough strength to sit in the chair while I change the bed linens?”

“No.  But what use … anyway, if this is just going to …. repeat itself endlessly once the … poppy wears off?”

“Because for awhile at least, you will be more comfortable.  Come.” Aramis knelt by the bed and slipped an arm under Athos’ right shoulder, drew him up and rotated both of them until Athos was sitting on the edge of the bed, then dragged him to his feet long enough to prop him in the corner of the room. 

Athos sat unmoving, only the traction of his damp, bare feet against the wood floor holding his knees upright, arms folded across his middle, head hanging nearly to his chest. 

Aramis quickly stripped the bed and replaced the soaked sheets and blanket with fresh linens.  He moved the candles off the sill and opened the window to empty the chamber pot, but also to air out the room a little.  He was careful to restore the pauldron to the place it occupied an arm’s length down the bed on the right side. 

It was a matter of five minutes, but Athos was shivering all over again by the time Aramis had him tucked back between clean sheets and pulled the blanket back up.  “Have you any experience with poppy?  Do you know how long we might expect the effects to last?”

“Long ago,” Athos said after a bit, as if it had taken some time to retrieve the memory.  “I remember falling from my pony and breaking an ankle.  I believe I was given the juice of the poppy both as a pain reliever and an attempt to keep me quiet.  I have no recall of how long it lasted.  Only that I was frequently dosed.”

“Children require less in amount, but absorb it faster than adults.  So you were a rambunctious boy?” Aramis asked interestedly.   

“No, only determined to learn to ride.  One must … you know … if one wishes to be … a musketeer.”

“You wanted to be a musketeer?”

“I did not tell you that … before?”

“No!” The exclamation startled his patient and Aramis instantly lowered his voice.  “Why did you not join long ago?  There are far more nobleman’s sons enlisted than commoners or gentry like Porthos and I.”

“Oldest.  M’father forbade it.  Thomas … could have done.  No desire.”

“Thomas?”  Aramis squashed the creeping guilt.  This was likely as wrong as letting Athos talk while under the influence of alcohol, though the terseness that usually met probing questions was gone.  Poppy, however, might relax those boundaries even more than alcohol.  So he didn’t push, just waited.

“Younger brother.”

“You have a brother?” Aramis exclaimed.  “I have two,” he offered quickly in an attempt to disguise his surprise.  “They’re both very poor correspondents though.”

“No … correspondence.  Thomas … Thomas is dead.”  Perhaps the noxious poppy had reduced him to this, or perhaps because his defenses had taken such a beating over the last few days Athos found himself incapable of shoving that overwhelming grief back into its proper place, locked away behind the vaulted doors of his tattered soul.  He made no attempt to distance himself from the emotion, just let it flow through and out of him until the tightness in his chest began to diminish and the military tattoo drumming inside his head flourished its final beats. 

Aramis sat in the chair, witness to the silent grief, praying the opening of this particular flood gate might ease some of the tightly clenched internal pain he had sensed.  “He was your only other family then?  Besides your wife?” he asked softly, an invitation.  

Athos only nodded.  He might have spilled all the sordid details, but the myriad thoughts forming in his head appeared too quickly to catch and then dispersed in the next instant like the phantasms of his dead wife.  His fingers plucked restlessly at the edge of the blanket. 

A tell Aramis decided it was best to leave unrevealed.  His very active brain, though, was busily sorting through scenarios that might engender the kind of guilt the nobleman seemed unable to escape.  Truly there was very little a land owner of the Comte de le Fère’s heritage wasn’t shielded from, the notable exception being treason.  His word would have been law on his own lands; he could have murdered his brother and his wife, buried them openly in the church graveyard and still been pardoned for his misdeeds so long as he continued to support the king’s treasury or supply militia when required. 

His patient was at last beginning to breathe easier.  Aramis rose to retrieve a handkerchief from his coat, handed it over and it took it back after it had been used.  He offered the wet cloth again.

Athos plucked it up and buried his face in it.    

“This level of intensity shouldn’t last a lot longer,” Aramis said matter-of-factly, imparting the knowledge as if that would make it absolute truth in this situation.  “And then you should start to feel better.  Your arm is less inflamed than it was this morning.  The fever will abate – somewhat – as the infection dissipates.”  

Athos closed his eyes on a tired sigh.  “May I beg another act of kindess?”

“Of course,” Aramis agreed without the slightest hesitation.

“Swear on whatever _you_ hold sacred that you will shoot me between the eyes if I ever let myself sink to this level again.”

“I can do that, since I have complete faith in your choices going forward.” 

“You should not gamble so recklessly, especially on one such as I.”

“Porthos is the gambler, money and possessions have no hold over him, he’ll bet everything on the toss of the die.  I only bet on sure things.  Are you warm enough now?  Or do you want another blanket?  The poppy will suppress the fever for awhile too.”

“No, I am … comfortable I think.” 

The declarative was offered with a bit of surprise, making Aramis smile.  “Good, I pray it lasts awhile.  Shall I close the window?”

“Noooo… breeze feels …”  The poppy pulled him under before Athos could collect the rest of the thought. 

Aramis scooted the chair back, careful not to let it scrape too loudly over the floor, deposited his booted feet on the side of the bed and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.  On a tired sigh, he let Morpheus take him too. 


	5. Chapter 5

By morning, Athos was again too sick to get out of bed.  And Aramis’ absolute conviction that the level of intensity would diminish in short order proved false.  There followed several more days of low grade fever, uncontrollable dry heaves, and the awful tics that made him itch all over.  Athos refused any further attempts to render him senseless with poppy and battled through on strength of will alone. 

Aramis pointed out that if his iron will could see him through this kind of an ordeal, relapsing was not going to be an issue.

Athos, who knew the siren call of the bottle better than he knew his own name, did not argue, but neither did he take any comfort in Aramis’ steadfast faith.  He trusted Porthos’ observation far more – _you got us now, you won’t need the bottle_ – though he was not a hundred percent certain even that would hinder a full-fledged retreat if the devil caught him again. 

If it was not the longest fortnight of his life, then this run of bad luck ran a close second to the blur of days following the deaths of his brother and wife.  While the frequency and strength of the symptoms abated somewhat day by day, they continued to plague him on and off, with varying degrees of potency, for the entirety of those two weeks.  His abused innards refused to keep down anything solid for the first week and were very particular about what they accepted even the second week. 

 By the third week, Athos was contemplating murder.  He had never been a man given to lazy pursuits and chafed endlessly at the confinement Aramis refused to lift no matter how often they argued. 

Tempers flared and heated words were exchanged, a thing Aramis found quite invigorating but had Athos retreating into an irritated silence from which he would not be coaxed.

Authority had been bred into his bones.  From the time he could walk and talk, Athos had been in charge.  As the heir, the only person who had not deferred to his wishes had been his father.  Even his mother – when his parents had been about, which had not been often – had acquiesced when conflict arose.  He had never worn the mantle of power with pleasure as did some among his peers, but he had inherited it at quite a young age, and had learned to wield it as naturally as he breathed. 

It made tolerance difficult.  Compliance had been easier when moving from the bed to the chamber pot had been the extent of his ability.  The arm gave him no trouble at all, now, though the shoulder still required thought before moving it.  But Athos was anxious to get back to his morning stretching routine. 

Aramis kept saying not yet.   

Three days into the third week, Porthos suggested a game of darts.  Athos, who just today had been allowed to remove the sling supporting his left arm and use that hand again, growled that he would play only if they used a picture of Aramis as the board. 

Aramis promptly sketched a quick and excellent likeness of himself on the wall with a piece of charcoal from the fireplace.  “Your dartboard, monsieur.” He offered a flourishing bow as he presented his masterpiece.

 “Spend much time in front of the mirror do you?”

Aramis twirled the ends of his mustache, doggedly holding onto his temper as he tried to remember he had not been the one huddled feverishly under the covers or retching into a chamber pot endlessly.  “ _Naturalmente_ ,” he said blithely, reverting to his mother’s native tongue. 

Tréville, guessing this third week would be the most difficult, had relieved both Aramis and Porthos of duty.  Aramis thought they’d done better trading off.  Three grown men in a small, two-room apartment, with one of them going stir-crazy, was one too many. 

“Is there any reason we can’t go out?” Porthos asked suddenly.  “Fresh air might do us all some good.”

Athos, who’d stomped over to the window to stare down at the street, turned, a transformed man, eyes alight with eagerness.  “Surely walking can’t hurt!”  

It was the most emotion Aramis had heard in the voice in the entire time he’d known the man.  “The stairs will be difficult,” he warned.  The apartment was on the third floor, it would be a long, daunting trek, especially back up. 

Porthos was pulling his coat back on.  “The leatherman told me the buckle on Athos’ coat is finished.  He’s not that far, we can go pick it up.” 

“I will crawl up the stairs if I have to,” Athos asserted, turning down the shirt cuffs he had rolled back while he went in search of his boots.  He found them under the bed and sat to pull them on, reaching for his sword belt as he rose to stamp into them. 

A hand closed over his.  “No.”

Athos turned his head slowly.  “There are a number of parties interested in running me through.  I do not go out unarmed.”

Athos was not Aramis’ first stubborn patient.  “Then you don’t go out, period.  That shoulder is still vulnerable.  However, you won’t be unarmed, you’ll be escorted by two fine musketeers with highly honed skills.”

Athos opened his fingers, though he sighed again. 

Porthos laughed.  “He’s getting’ almost as good at that as you, Aramis.”  He collected Athos’ hat from a peg on the back of the apartment door and tossed it to him. 

“Go on, I’ll catch up,” Aramis said, when they turned on the landing to wait for him.

“I feel naked,” Athos muttered as he and Porthos stepped out the front door of the residence into glaring sunlight.  “Do we wait?”

“Fortunately for the rest of the world, ya don’ look naked.”  Porthos headed down the street.  “Nah, he’ll catch up like he said.” 

It was a ten minute walk to the street of the leather workers, Aramis caught up to them easily, especially since by Athos’ reckoning, they were moving at a snail’s pace.  And since all attempts on his part to lengthen their strides were met with a deliberate slowing of the pace, he gave up and just enjoyed the fresh air and sunshine.

Monsieur Valle’s establishment, having the distinction of the corner lot, was larger than all the others on the street.  Much of his custom came from the musketeer garrison and he was quick to abandon other customers to wait on any musketeer who appeared on the premises. 

Today he was alone when they ducked under the lintel of the shop door. 

“You’ve come for the jacket?  I will get it, monsieurs, a moment only.”  Valle whisked himself through the rather tattered curtain, reappearing almost immediately caressing the soft suppleness of the leather coat he carried.  “This leather was worked by a master craftsman before you had it made into a coat.  Someone who does exquisite work.  I would know his name if you have it, monsieur.”

Athos, who to his own surprise, would have liked to lean against the counter, shrugged.  “The leather came into my hands as you see it now.”  He could not very well tell this man the cow that had provided it had been raised, butchered, and turned into tanned leather all on his estate.  

“Too bad, too bad,” the wizened Valle said sadly.  “I would love to visit and ask about his methods.

“May we see the coat, monsieur,” Aramis requested, reaching for it. 

The leatherman left off his petting and handed the coat across the counter, crowing with pleasure when Aramis produced the pauldron and laid both the coat and the _epaulière_ on the counter.  He proceeded to thread the sleeve through the elbow guard, buckle on the pauldron and with a flourish, hold it up for Athos to try on.

“So you are the new musketeer, monsieur.  My congratulations!  I have not worked so intricate a design in many a year.  These two,” he nodded toward Athos’ companions, “they ask if I can create in the leather the illusion of endlessly repeating sword grips.  It was a challenge, but a delightful one.  I am very proud of this piece.”

“As you should be,” Athos agreed.  “It is exquisite work.”  He slid carefully into the jacket, vigilantly keeping the twinge of pain in his shoulder off his face, though Aramis was behind him. 

Porthos winked.  “Won’t be long now, just a few more days.” He stepped forward to adjust the buckle on the inside of the elbow guard, straightened the _epaulière_ and stepped back again.  “Well?”

Aramis joined Porthos as they both inspected him.  Athos did not crane his neck to look at it, though he could not resist flexing his elbow, then his hand. 

“Well?  How does it feel?” Porthos made it sound as though the suspense was killing him.

“Strange,” Athos admitted, reaching across to touch it.  It felt different, perched on his shoulder, than it had lying beneath his hand on the bed. 

“It’s a bit snug at first, but the leather will stretch as you work in it, ‘n wear it in all kinda’ weather,” Porthos reported sagely.  “Won’t be long ‘fore you won’t remember _not_ having it there.”

“One does tend to feel a little naked without it after awhile,” Aramis added.  “Monsieur Valle,” he inclined his head in a slight obeisance, “you are the best.  Thank you again.”

“My thanks as well, monsieur.” Athos lifted his hat, offering the same inclination of the chin as Aramis.  “I know where to come if I have further need of leather work.” 

“Reynard.”  Porthos tipped his hat as well and the trio trooped back out into the street. 

Their return was even slower than the departure.  Aramis and Porthos sauntered, stopping to look at goods on display outside the shops while Athos leaned against a wall;  hailing acquaintances – while Athos leaned against a wall; at one point coming to a standstill to debate the merits of taking one street vs another to get home – while Athos leaned against the wall.

By the time they arrived at the bottom of the stairs up to his apartment, Athos was contemplating complete capitulation.  The stairs looked like the Pyrenees.

“I will never live this down, I know.”  Athos sank down on the second step, elbows resting lightly on his knees.  “Is he always right?” he inquired wryly of Porthos.

For some reason Porthos’ roar of laughter made the admission easier.  

“As annoying as it is to acknowledge, I am not yet up to this.”

Aramis put on his saintly face, a look Athos had accused him of practicing before the mirror, as it was seraph personified.  “I would rather you not crawl up the stairs, my lo…” he stopped himself as the hat brim rose, a dangerous spark lighting the blue eyes.  

Needling the _comte_ with _my lording_ in private was one thing - Athos invariably gave him the evil eye and then ignored him.  Continuing it in public, however casually, was unacceptable.  Aramis offered the same deferential bow he had essayed Valle.  “My apologies, good sir.  But I really would rather you not crawl, it would put too much pressure on that shoulder.  There is no hurry, take whatever time you need.  I’m just going to go up and tidy up a few things.”  And he disappeared up the long flight of steps.

Porthos sat down beside Athos.  “Aramis says you always wanted to be a musketeer, even from a little shaver.” 

The hat inclined in assent. 

Unintimidated by no verbal response, Porthos forged ahead.  “What took ya s’long to come around?”

“I must assume he also told you my father would not allow it.”

“Yeah, first born and all.  Can’t go getting yerself shot to pieces, even if there is a spare, huh?”

“Something like that.”  The de la Fère title had been in the family since Charles VI, passing from eldest son to eldest son.  Athos had already made the decision it would end with him.

“Still,” Porthos ruminated, “you’re what, five and twenty?  Six and twenty maybe?”

“What do you want to know?” 

“You didn’t get your reputation wanderin’ the continent, only ‘broidered it a bit.  Just wonderin’ why you haven’t been a musketeer for a while already.”

“Broidered?” Athos echoed, eyebrows raised. 

“You know,” Porthos pinched the fingers of his right hand, put out his pinkie, and made up and down motions,  “fancy sewin’ – ‘broiderin’.”

“Ahhh.”  Athos leaned carefully against the wall. 

“Did I say it wrong?”

“No, but I am not particularly conversant with the term.  I had a fiancé once, who embroidered.  I vaguely recall they used to have afternoon tea and ‘broidering sessions.”  His wife had not been fond of the female sport of embroidery.  She hadn’t been particularly fond of his ex-fiancé, either, when it came down to it.  Athos put a hand over his eyes.  “Then I married another woman.  She was … my heart and soul.  I forget everything else I ever wanted to do.” 

The front door opened and the pretty _grisette_ who lived in the flat across from Athos flounced in.  She stopped in her tracks when she saw them sitting on the stairs, eyeing Porthos interestedly as he rose and made her a sweeping bow.   “ _Mademoiselle_.” 

Her attention returned to her still seated neighbor.  “ _Monsieur_ Athos, are you unwell?”  Her piquant features drew together in a frown as she gave him a thorough once over, though in the next instant the frown disappeared and her eyes lit up as she spotted the pauldron.  “You did not tell me you are a musketeer!” She clapped her hands excitedly before clasping them beneath her chin. “Oh the other girls at the shop will be _so_ jealous when I tell them my neighbor is a musketeer!” she tittered rapturously. 

“My apologies, _Mademoiselle_ Gigi, for not rising to greet you properly.  I was attempting to remove a stone from my boot before mounting the stairs.”  Athos’ hands fluttered for a moment at his right boot cuff, unsure how to affect the illusion of the words.  He was not used to creating fiction out of thin air.  Not because he was honest by nature, rather, because he had never needed to lie.  As lord of the manor, no one had ever challenged his right to do whatever he wanted.  “Please,” he rose and swept off his hat, bowing as prettily as Porthos, “do not let us impede your progress.  I am sure you have had a long day and will be wishing to be off your feet, _mademoiselle.”_

Smooth round cheeks dimpled with pleasure as a smile came to flowering fullness.  “You are always so kind,” she gushed, daintily placing her gloved fingers on the gauntleted wrist he offered to hand her up the stairs.  “Such polished manners, one would almost think there was more to you than meets the eye, _monsieur_ Athos.”

Only Porthos knew he was gritting his teeth as Athos bowed again and resettled his hat.  “I live to serve, _mademoiselle_.”  He had no choice, now, but to follow her up the stairs, if only to give credence to his lie.  He was sure Porthos was grinning from ear to ear as he brought up the rear.

They left her at her door with more flourishing courtesies and Athos desperately hoping he had redirected her concerns, else he was bound to have her at his own door, inquiring after his health on a daily basis.  The sparkling little _grisette_ was looking to move up in society and a musketeer spouse would be a perfect foil for her liveliness.  

“We should introduce her to Aramis,” Athos muttered as he entered the sanctuary of his own apartment. 

“No we should not,” Porthos disagreed comfortably.  “That girl wants a husband, and I don’ mean as in desires one, she’s in need ‘o one to keep her in line.  Aramis is the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind still.  You don’t need that livin’ next door to you.”

“Good point.”  Athos slumped back against the door.  “You washed off your self-portrait.” That was the first thing he noticed. 

“The exhibition did not open to lauds and laurels.” Aramis laughed.  “I didn’t want the charcoal seeping into the paint either.  Why is my name being bandied about?”

“I said we should introduce you to my neightbor.  Porthos said that was a bad idea.”  Athos sniffed appreciatively.  “Why are you moving my furniture about?”  A fire was crackling merrily on his hearth, though the windows had been thrown wide, and the tang of wood smoke under laid with notes of citrus and cedar scented the air.  His home no longer smelled like the musketeer barracks.   

The carved wooden screen usually creating a bit of privacy for the chamber pot in the other room had been reassigned to this room in front of the fireplace. 

“Firstly because you still smell like my father’s still,” Aramis said pleasantly, “and secondly, because if you’re returning to the garrison tomorrow, you might want to appear slightly less slovenly.  To that end, I requested that your landlord provide us with the accouterments to bathe.  And Porthos is usually right about these things if you were discussing your across-the-hall-neighbor.” 

“Tomorrow?” Athos pushed off the door, bewildered by this sudden about-face, all thoughts of Gigi wiped from his mind.  He was entirely uncertain, after Aramis’ little lesson on how much effort it took just to walk the short distance they’d covered, that he could even manage the walk to and from the barracks. 

“This was in the works already,” Porthos informed him, “Cap’in has some things you can do sittin’ down.  Light duty stuff.  Every musketeer whose been injured gets rotated back in on light duty.” He was laying out lethal looking instruments on the tabletop.  “We’re detailed to the king next week.  He’s anxious to meet you.”

“Anxious to meet me?”

“Did you know there are birds in Spain who do that same annoying thing you’re doing?  They’re called parrots because they parrot everything you say.  Off with the coat.”  Aramis shucked Athos out of jacket and pauldron and pointed at a chair set atop a sheet spread on the floor.  “Sit.  You need a shave and a haircut, if you don’t mind our saying so.  And one of Porthos’ many skills is barbering.”

Athos sat, though mostly because he was too tired to stand any longer.   

Porthos whipped another sheet around his neck, picked up a pair of scissors and began lopping off locks of hair.   

Athos let his mind wander as he listened to the rhythmic snip snip snip of the scissors and the symphony of water pouring into a tub.  He could feel the heat of both the fire and the cascading water and every tense muscle in his body began to quiver with anticipation. 

He did not regret his choice to leave behind his old life for one second, but there were things he infrequently allowed himself to miss.  The master suite at the _chateau_ de la Fère was larger than his apartment, though it was not the space he regretted leaving behind.  He missed the bathing chamber keenly, and the intimacy of the ancient tester bed in which he’d been born, the way it cradled his body in its softness, though he had not slept in it since Anne’s betrayal.  _That_ missing was tainted by memories he did not wish to convene and he moved on quickly.  He did, he had to admit, still occasionally miss his valet. 

He had learned to shave and keep his beard trimmed out of necessity, but he’d realized very quickly there had been a number of things he’d taken for granted.  The magnitude of buttons, just for example, that adorned most of his clothing.  He’d been dressed and undressed by a valet for so long he’d forgotten both the joy and the agony of buttons.

“Mind you don’t fall asleep on me,” Porthos warned, tilting Athos’ chin with a thumb “or you could wake up with an accidental-like slit throat.” 

Athos blinked away the brief foray into the not-so-distant past, straightening carefully in the high-backed chair as Porthos expertly restored the line of his beard down the right side his jaw.  “I could do this myself.”

“Uh huh, and then you really would be wakin’ up dead.”  The razor scraped against the bowl, depositing soap on the edge.  “Tilt,” Porthos adjured, and began on the left side.  

One of the first withdrawal symptoms to afflict Athos yet lingered.  Without warning, his hands would suddenly take on the aspect of trembling birch leaves, leaving his fingers nerveless and incapable of grasping anything long after the tremors ceased. 

Aramis finished stacking empty buckets outside the front door, though he left one beside the tub and came to sit at the table.  “Well, well, I begin to see the _comte_ emerging, or what he must have looked like.”

“The _comte_ may rot in hell,” Athos said pleasantly.  “I would prefer to be looking at Athos of the King’s Musketeers when Porthos is done.”

“Ahhhhh,” Aramis returned drily, “I’m not quite sure if he’s decided to come out of hiding yet.”

Athos slanted a look across the table.   

“Chin up,” Porthos directed. 

“Turns out he’s a bit shy, but I think perhaps soon, he’ll be comfortable enough to stick around for awhile.” 

“You are wisdom personified,” Athos retorted, mindful of the razor gliding down his throat. 

Aramis only grinned.

Porthos finished off his handiwork with a warm, damp towel, wiping away the remnants of soap before carefully removing the sheet around Athos’ neck to shake the snippings onto the sheet on the floor. 

“Soap and towels are on the chair in front of the fire.”  Aramis nodded toward the privacy screen.  “No need to keep either wound dry anymore, soak as long as you like.” 

It had not occurred to Athos that the landlord of this tenement house he now owned might contrive such bliss.  He had assumed that like other commoners, if he wanted a bath he would have to take himself off to one of the public bath houses. 

The pot of soap smelled like the apartment – and Aramis – layers of spicy cedar and a hint of Spanish oranges.  The tub was surprisingly large enough to sink shoulder deep beneath the water, and the heat, one of those ineffable luxuries he missed dearly, was sheer bliss.  He could not remember a time when a bath had been so appreciated and thought this just might be the closest he would ever get to heaven.

And then, just when the water was beginning to cool, behind him a pair of hands on his shoulders eased him forward. 

“Close your eyes,” Aramis instructed, only _after_ Porthos had poured a bucket of warm water over Athos’ head. 

“Better keep ‘em closed,” Porthos followed up laughingly as a concert of soap and hands in Athos’ newly shorn hair became symphonic as well. 

“You are wasted in the musketeers, Aramis.  You should hire out as a valet.  You’d have every lord in the kingdom vying for your services.”

“I’m quite happy with my current occupation.  Though I will keep this in mind should I have need of funds if I live to retire.   Porthos will tell you, you only merit this treatment if you’ve been at death’s door.”

“In reality, ‘s usually me doing this for him, since Aramis is usually the one getting’ im’self ‘urt.”

“Well, there is some truth in that,” Aramis agreed, “lean forward and keep your eyes closed.  I’ve decided to hand that particular distinction over to you.  You’re welcome to the achievement of the being the most prone to being wounded.”

Athos’ drowned response sounded a bit like a deluged dog barking.  He did not try again until he was dressing in clean clothes before the warmth of the fire.  “No thank you on the pass off, you can keep that distinction.  In two years of drinking, whoring and fighting my way across the continent,” he said, not exactly mimicking the captain, though Aramis caught the reference immediately, “not one individual managed to even mar my clothing.”  If there had been very little whoring after an initial attempt or two had failed, that was not something he felt obligated to share. 

“I’d heard that rumor,” Aramis murmured.  “And wondered if you were letting this happen on purpose, to deflect suspicion.”

“No.”  Athos sat himself down again.  As wonderful as the bath had been, he was still worn out from the trip to Valle’s.  He took the towel Aramis handed him and sopped the water from his hair, though it would take a while to dry, thick as it was.  “About tomorrow,” he began, only to be interrupted.

“Your horse is eating ‘is eating its head off in the stables.”  Porthos was emptying the tub water out the window, garnering a great number of squeals and curses from below.  “Aramis had already agreed to tomorrow’s outing, despite the fact he don’t think you’re ready.  We were plannin’ to ride over and get ya anyway.  I think one of us is going to kill somebody if we don’t get out of here.”

It never failed to amuse when Porthos’ diction became as clipped and precise as any patented lord.

“More to the point, Porthos is worried _you’re_ going to kill me if I don’t let you out of here.” 

Athos smiled, his lips curving easily and of their own accord beneath his newly trimmed mustache.  “Do you know, I used to think I was quite well off.” He paused, gaze dropping to the table, because when it came right down to it, he was still very shy about revealing feelings of any kind.  “I did not know my own poverty.”


	6. Chapter 6

If he’d been amazed before, Tréville thought, standing again at the balcony railing, he was in awe now.  Athos, cleaned up and sober was not only a brilliant swordsman, the man was one of those rare _born_ leaders.  He was only a few years older than most of the other men in the company, but his quiet, authoritative manner, now that he had stepped from the shadows, was much respected among the men of the garrison.  Even the crew who’d given him such a hard time originally, had fallen under the man’s spell. 

It had not gone unnoticed that he still tended to be most often in the company of Aramis and Porthos, it had earned the trio a nickname already – the Inseparables – and none of them seemed particularly offended by it. 

Athos, whose light duty assignments had included some of the political correspondence Tréville despised, had a spent a week in the garrison office.  Only once in that time, had he initiated conversation, and it had been to apologize for the deaths of Tréville’s friends.  The captain, who did his best to be fair-minded, had had to admit his friends had been the pursuers. 

The pair had been eager to match skills with the _comte_ , and in no mood to see reason.  Athos had disarmed Guion in the first ten minutes of the match.  The fool had refused to back down and ended up dead, which had enraged Chiasson who had foolishly challenged on the spot.  Twenty minutes later, his body had lain beside that of his friend and the Comte de la Fère had walked away without a backwards glance. 

Tréville had thought him a cold-hearted bastard.  The Comte de la Fère would have agreed with him. 

Athos had risen a bit more in the captain’s estimation during that week.  He had done what was asked of him, and done well whatever was put into his hands, without complaint.  Had Tréville put either Aramis or Porthos to these tasks, he would still be hearing about it  – more than two weeks later. 

Tréville had been present the day the king had challenged Athos to a fencing match.  And watched the man lose in such a manner that the king could call a halt while congratulating Athos most heartily and assuring him that there was no question the new musketeer would have won the match if he’d hadn’t been hampered by his recent injuries.  The king, all smiling teeth, had promised a rematch when Athos was completely healed. 

Aramis, taking full advantage of the king’s beneficent understanding of events, had whisked their trio away before he and Porthos busted something trying to hold in their laughter.   

Fortunately Tréville was not royalty and knew that his good fortune in acquiring the Continent’s finest swordsman had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Aramis’ inclination to take on lost causes.  For which he was grateful.  Drawing back from his little trip down memory lane, he returned his attention to the courtyard. 

Behind him he heard Aramis handing off his horse to a stable lad, having returned from duty at the Louvre.  Porthos appeared from the armory and Athos stepped back, bowing diffidently to Frayne, who returned the gesture with a much deeper obeisance than had been in evidence just a month ago.    

The trio met in the middle of the courtyard and headed for the mess hall, Aramis sharing some anecdote from his day at the palace apparently, for Porthos threw back his head and laughed out loud.

Athos glanced up to the balcony.  “Will you join us for dinner, sir?”

Tréville took a moment to consider, then nodded.  “I’ll join you shortly.”  An invitation to dine with the Inseparables was not lightly turned down by _anyone_ in the garrison.  

Dinner and drinks having been consumed, Porthos brought out cards and invited everyone still in the dining hall to sit in on a hand.  Since they all knew Porthos cheerfully cheated, there were no fortunes won or lost, though there was much good-natured teasing at the imaginary betting. 

On the last round, Porthos bet a ship-o’-the-line that he held the best cards, after swearing he had nothing up either sleeve.  Aramis’ stake was a vineyard in Bordeaux.   Tréville sat back to study his hand.  He was not normally a light-hearted fellow, but the wine had flowed freely and the companionship had been jovial.  Accordingly, he bet the queen’s jewels.  Athos, who had not been drinking, and who had played without the boisterous élan of his friends, put up Madam La Rue’s brothel as his stake and won the last hand because Porthos had taught him to cheat masterfully

“And on that note, gentleman,” Athos spread his cards on the table for all to see, “since I am now the proud owner of a ship-of-the-line, a fine vineyard and the queens jewels, not to mention an imaginary brothel, I believe I will take my leave before I am stripped to my smalls and regretting the evening.”  Amid chortles of delight he slid a hand into each of his jacket sleeves, leaving another half a deck on the table – all high cards.  “Porthos,” he collected his sword, “I’m indebted.” 

Athos donned his hat, adjusted the brim and bent at the waist, adding a graceful hand flourish to the execution of his genuflection.  “The pleasure has been all mine, friends.  Until tomorrow … I bid you all _adieu_.”


	7. Chapter 7

When Aramis took himself off to his quarters not too long later, he discovered in the middle of his bed, a beautifully bound book.  The cover was embossed leather, old and shiny in spots – an original, he saw, when he opened it.  Donne’s _Meditation XVII_ , with a bit of parchment stuck between the covers.  The book fell open to _No Man is an Island_ , the first four lines lightly underlined:

___No man is an island,_  
_Entire of itself,_  
_Every man is a piece of the continent,_  
_A part of the main._

And on the slip of parchment, in a bold, masculine hand was written, _Right Again_.   Aramis lit a brace of candles, stuffed his pillow behind his back, and read late into the night.

Porthos found a book, too, a much slimmer volume, though equally beautifully bound.  His note read; 

_I remembered this from my youth, when I would while away a pleasant hour learning in my father’s library.  You probably already know many of these words, what you know I would like to learn, and what neither of us knows, it would be my honor to learn together if you will allow it._

It was a dictionary of sorts, the personal work of someone who loved words.  Many of the entries had been written in a rather haphazard manner, some dashed off and ink spattered, while others had been written in neat, precise lettering.  There were pages and pages of words with copious notes.  Some Porthos knew instantly, others he could barely pronounce.  But just holding something by someone else who had once loved words, too, gave him immense pleasure.  That Athos had put such thought into this gift, even more so.

Porthos slept with it under his pillow. 

 

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. All characters and settings are the property of BBC America, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._


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